Hell or High Water
by Danni's Infinite Thoughts
Summary: Sherlock acciedntally runs into new kid, John Watson, on his way to lunch. Luck would have it that the two would begin a friendship that's tested several times. But the biggest test happens to be when the school is put on lock down...
1. Chapter 1: Writing Device

He starts to fidget, feeling the confinment of his desk closing in. He taps his foot impaciently as he watches the clock move at an alarmingly slow pace. The slender black hand sluggishly hovering past each marking, mocking him, laughing at him, pushing tick is a nerve Sherlock's lost. And at this point, the lable on his pencil is becoming a welcomed distraction.

"That's why the civil war had started," Mr. Vega says, his monotone voice caring out through the entire room. Half the class is struggling to stay awake while the other fourty-nine percent already gave up on that fight. The one percent was focused on his writing device. But somehow, it's only Sherlock who gets in trouble for not being attentive. "So, Sherlock, what is your opinion on the war?" A minute passes in silence for no responce.

"Sherlock?" 's mouth twitches slightly, **_I can finally catch him off guard._** His thick bushy brows raise, a gesture to answer. Sherlock sighs, rolling his beautiful blue eyes. "The war was unfairly weighted. During this time period, the south out did the north in numbers, it wouldn't help because some of the that population was made of slave, who served on the northern side. Plus industrialization and what not. I could go on but I don't care too." Sherlock speaks as fast as he loses interest in the topic. He takes a swift look at his world history teacher; the vein on the top of his shiny bald dome is defined, his fat cheeks are pillowed in pink, his gnawing on his now bloody lip, and his beady brown eyes are gazing at the ground.

Sherlock rises from his god forsaken desk and saunters over to the door, before the teacher can object, the bell rings. The students, who no more than three seconds ago were sleeping like the dead, jumps up and begin to pour out into the halls.

Sherlock strides down the path navigating the quickest way to lunch. The students giving him a wide bearth, trying to avoid him like a plauge. It was known to the entire student body that if you crossed paths with Sherlock that your darkest secrets or embaressments are brought to light as though he read it off your forehead. He calls it "deducing" and they call it "piss off". Though, Sherlock never really gives a damn how they felt, their opinion is hardly relevant.

As the dinning hall comes insight, he rips his phone from his pocket. Searching the news for something interesting. Sherlock's body collides with an object; sturdy enough to land him on his back and a cracking sound to echo in his ears.**_ Damn that's going to hurt later._** Sherlock grimaces, against the cool tiles. He grips at his head, feeling for any damage. Only a bump that was well hidden under his mopped black curls. Quickly he gets to his feet and pauses once he sees, not what but who he collided with. A short blond boy is collecting a few scattered papers from the ground. Sherlock takes note of the brand new planner, the blue rectangular sheet of paper, and a heavy weighted bookbag. A new student.

"Sorry, really. I didn't mean to- I should have watched where I was- sorry." The golden haired boy whispers, just loud enough to hear. Sherlock blinked, _he_ was the one who should have been watching not the boy. "No," He begins but finds the words forcing themselves back down his throat. So instead, Sherlock continues to stroll down the walkway without finishing. Pausing for a minute while the urge to aid the blond fades.

Sherlock knows _that_ boy's kind; he'd be nice at first but quickly turn on Sherlock when he heard what the other student's thought of him... if not that then his secret would.

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**Hello loves! I know JohnLock in school senarios are quite common but I hope you see past that and bear with me as it picks up within the next chapter or two. Please enjoy! Commet if you like. Thanks so much for just reading!**

_Danni_


	2. Chapter 2: Safe Havens and Chemistry

**if not that then his secret would...**

John glances back, watching the tall onxy haired boy glide out of view and into the sea of students. **_Just because you're good looking doesn't mean you have to rude, _**he thinks sourly. He stands up, lifting the blue schedule to eye level. He was supposed to be in creative writing however, he can't quite figure out which hall is which. It was hard to find your way through a labyrinth of halls that mirrored each other with perfection. A network of teachers show him the way to the class, in which, he finds home away from home. The room in itself promoted John's feeling; including a couch and coffee table. The students, you can tell, share in John' comfort. They were all so diverse but they also discover unity in their love for writing; something John can full heartedly support. Needless to say that when the dismissive bell rings , they drag out the processes of alternating classes.

A new friend from his writing class, a rat faced lad with short choppy hair, named Lestrade sees John off to his next class. **_Oh, chemistry should be interesting._** He trots in with a smile, shows the tall ostrich like woman his forum, and sits in the only chair that hasn't been assigned to anyone that period. The students begin to file in, each laying their homework sheet on the counter then fill in the area. Though, it seems that, the stool next to John's remain unoccupied "Poor lad, has the deducing dumbass as his partner! I feel sorry for you, I really do." A jock from his third first class, Anderson says loudly. His lab buddy, a tan skinned girl with thick corse hair snotrs along with him.

When the secondary bell rings, the woman immeaditly launches into the next chapter of equations and experiments that are going to happen for this week. Mid-sentence, the door flys open. John's smile faulters once he sets eyes upon the student and surprisingly the other student hardly reacts to John's presence. "Why, this time?" Mrs., John forgets her name, asks with an underlying annoyance. "I was busy." Is all he gives, his tone deep and soothing, kind of like Scar's from The Lion King. "I should call Mycroft about this." The woman threatens. "Good luck, he gave you his work number." "And?" "He works for the government. You think your petty concerns are enough for him to put the Italian Ambassador on hold?"

The raven hair boy marches close and closer to John until he replaces the empty space on John's left. Even he must admit that the taller boy's hardly an eye sore. The boy's eyes are unfathomably blue, a rare blue that people paid to get in contacts. With strong features that, even at his young age, are deeply defined on smooth porcelain skin. **_No reason to be unfriendly._** John turns slightly, holding out his hand, offers, "Hello, my name's John Watson."

The young man glances down at John's out reached hand and sighs. Like it's mandatory as social protocal to shake the blond's hand. "Sherlock Holmes." He grips John's hand with strength John should barely give credit for. He nods and they return to facing the board.

During the middle of the lesson, Sherlock shifts so that he faces John entirely. John feels Blue eyes burning a hole through him, he trys to ignoring it, until he can't stand it anymore. "Yes?" John inquires lowly, making sure Mrs. No Name doesn't hear. "John," Sherlock pauses, a leering grin on his lips and John automatically becomes uneased. "You're bored." The black haired boy purrs. His golden brows draw downward quizzically. "Yeah, so?" Sherlock leans father into John's perimeter. "So am I." Sherlock states, far to close for John's liking and goes to scoot away but falls.

John jolts awake, noiselessly. "You could go back to sleep, you didn't miss anything important." Sherlock comments lazily, scribbling small drawings in his composition book. John's releif on lasts for a moment when he looks up at the board and it's filled with terminology he doesn't know, diagrams that make no sense, and numbers that he can't place. The room was slightly depleated of students. "You couldn't wake me up?" John asks, a little more harshly than needed. John catches Sherlock's bright eyes and feels the heat crawl into his face and onto his ears.**_ Quite a vivid dream._**

John clears his throat, freaking out over his half done notes. "Can I borrow your notes?" Sherlock lets out a small chuckle. "If I had taken any notes, I would." John should have known. "Laters." Sherlock escorts himself out after the class empties out.

John stares after him, wondering what was with this young man.

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**Hello! I hope you enjoy it so far! chapter tres is going to be fun, since Sherlock goes mad trying to- Oh, I've said too much! Hahaha**

**Love ya! Comments are welcomed! See you in chapter 3!**


	3. Chapter 3: John and King Lear

**what was with this young man...**

"Come on, is that _all_ you want to do? Talk about Jake?" Her breath on his neck as she is sucking on a sweet spot. Perhaps, if Sherlock was from the same species this would be a turn on. But he's not, he's the living breathing entity of a cyborg. In result, he instead becomes mildly irritated and so swiftly, he places a hand on her forehead, pushing her to arm's length. "His name is John. Irene, get off of me, you're being dull again." Sherlock accuses.

Irene growls, pulling her brown waves back into a tight pony tail. She can always count on Sherlock to piss her off before one of her volley ball matches. "I'm starting to believe you're gay, it would explain a lot." Irene remarks as she leans against against the railing next to the heavenly looking boy. This statement does not, no, _could not_ offend him. Though no one seemed to question why, only that it is _Sherlock_ we're talking about.

Sherlock analyzes his neighbor for a moment then looks back to the lawn's man-made pond. "Why do you continue to date Jim; he consistantly hurts for you?" Sherlock asks. He needs no answer, he simply did not care, but it's question _she_ needs to think about. Irene's leafy green orbs focus on him, a fraction of a minute passes before she speaks. "I seem to have a thing for guys who don't show much." She stares at Sherlock from the corner of her eye, laughing. Sherlock's stern expression doesn't change the entire time until Irene calms down. "Okay, so who's John?"

Sherlock observes the plush grass, recalling every detail of their encounter. John's sun kissed shaggy hair; highlighting his fair skin. Eyes that are almost auburn rimmed in gold flecs with a slender nose that frames the base of his pink mediocre lips.

"John's from higher middle class; his father a military man, his mother's critquically ill, and his brother has decided to drop out of college. He has the same lit. class as us, how do you not know?" Irene shrugs, her eyelids slide shut. "Just because I've seen him, doesn't mean I know him," It gets quiet between the two, Irene slacks in her stance. "He's not bad looking though." Warmth sweeps through Sherlock; the muscles in his hand tense into fists and his heart pounds, sending viberations through his skin, turning every receptor in his skin sensitive. **_Jealousy?_** Sherlock shakes his head, **_No, that would be stupid. It'd mean..._** Sherlock rolls his gorgeous blue eyes. **_Not an option._**

"What's special about him?" The conversation takes on a much more personal direction than Sherlock cares to explore. "Is Jim in town?" Irene arches a brow when answering. "You already know that answer. So, why is John so important to you? You just met him two weeks ago, right? Do you have-" "Irene." The shift in his tone is her warning. They had an agreement to never push each other farther than they were willing to tell. Sherlock's eyes narrow.

Luckly Irene, getting the hint, launches into a 'that slut in her fill in class here' story. He tunes out within seconds, decisively anxious for Monday. He has finally found something _not_ boring that isn't in his room because John Watson is extraordinarly average, and strangely it fascinates him.

John hasn't spoken to him since that day, and it is driving Sherlock mad. Almost as if the conversation had never occured. **_It's my job to ignore, not be ignored._** He sneers in mind, walking down the stretched hall to literature. Thinking about how John ignored him in chemistry and how if he did again in lit. class he would implode. He moves to reach for his pocket but stops short, there is no way he wouldn't be reprimanded for smoking here. Sherlock would have to get through class on edge, he pray no one act on stupidity or would undergo his wrath.

He swung the door open, unfazed by the blatantly staring class, it is almost every class he is late. It is what he sees from his peripheral that makes his finger tips run numb. Bitter before class can even begin; it read on his face, even Irene sits a little straighter with shocked as her body tenses.

As the class progresses, Sherlock takes on a stage persona. Ranting on about all of Shakespeare's work, even going as far to quote some of the lines from King Lear. Irene wonders if Sherlock is "using" again, all this to obtain John's attention; the effort goes unnoticed. **_This bastard._** He storms over to John's desk and slams his hands down on John's book, adrenaline pumping into his veins. Lovely brown eyes meet Sherlock's godly blue ones. It becomes as quiet as a grave yard.

Sherlock effortlessly drags the book out of his grip and onto the floor. As quickly as the incident occurs, Sherlock recomposes himself and fixes his coat. Leaving the class to escape behind the library, he desparately needs a smoke. John quickly, for reasons unknown to himself, follows suit.

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**Like whoa! Sherlock really lost his grip there, now the balls in John's court. Well, hope ya'll liked it! Don't be afraid to comment! Love ya'll!, I can't wait for ya'll to see chapter 4 when John gets Sherlock to *train goes by* sounds all cutesy and crazy, right? **


	4. Chapter 4: The Unsolvable Puzzle

**John quickly, for reasons unknown to himself, follows suit.**

_**Oh god, that's so much better.**_Sherlock moans lowly, exhaling a grey film into the air. How long has it been since he smoked? Four or five classes ago? Ethier way, it feels like forever ago. "The bloody hell is your problem?" His eyes are closed but he has the voice memorized. "Excuse me?" Sherlock drags out the word, it sounding slightly slurred. He's enjoying himself too much and knows it. "That scene you pulled in class. The hell was that about?" John inquires, his arms crossing against his broad chest.

_**Must we really? **_Sherlock's mind runs through every possible senario and outcome; nothing availes. **_We must._** "You pissed me off." Sherlock answers more freely than he intended; this isn't a conversation he wants to have right now. Can't he just enjoy his smoke in peace and quiet? He leans his weight against the brick wall. "Whatever, I've done nothing to wrong you." John rolls his glorious auburn irises; forcing his body to leave, though everything in his being is pleading with him to stay. John arounds the corner away from the library, following the cement path back to the main hall.

Sherlock bellows, throwing his cigarett to the ground, crushing it under the weight of his designer shoe. Sherlock storming off, toward John, spinning the blond in his grip to face him. "_That_ is why you piss me off so much! You're so god damn ordinary but interesting, and I can't seem to figure out _why_. You're a fucking puzzle, I can't solve!" Sherlock manages threw grit teeth; his tone rough and desirabley deep. This, wether John is aware of it or not, is a colorfully coded compliment.

But that's not what John was focused on. In the mist of Sherlock's yelling, he had closed quite some distance between the two. Sherlock is right there, in John's face, with a soul searching stare. **_God really did bless this boy with a body that could be muse for statues and paintings, _**John admits. The only sound comes from their breathing. Sherlock's chest grazes against the blond's, an uncontrolable heat swarms John from the inside out. The only thing he can do is concentrate on his stillness because if he doesn't, god only knows what he'd do. **_He would try to kill me. What is he anyway, asexual?_** John notes, he frowns inwardly. The thought crosses his mind to ask but voids it before it can process into words.

"All I heard was that I'm awesome, from that entire speech." John grins, attempting to ebb away the tention. "Arrogant much?" Sherlock questions, a smirk splitting his plush lip; John smiles in relief. "And you're not?" John counters.

John looks toward the doors of, what he thinks maybe is, the science hall. He couldn't be sure, the halls still had no features that differed from each other as far as he could tell. "How much trouble do you think we're in?" "For me? a phone call to Mycroft. You? A slap on the wrists." John's perplexed face prompts Sherlock to say: "This may not have been the first time I did something against school policy." "No!" John says in mock sarcasim. They settle upon staying around the back of the library until the bell rings.

"Jesus, Sherlock this hurts." John groans.

Sherlock grunts, trying to steady his breath. "I know, usually I end up in that position."

John bites his lip, he'll be damned if he cries out. "I didn't actually think, oh god, you do this sort of thing.

Sherlock huffs, nodding. "You'd be surprised."

John can't handle anymore and taps out. Sherlock releases his grip and stands up.

"How long have you wrestled for?" John quizzes, rubbing his aching back.

Sherlock cracks his knuckles, scrunching his face, trying to think. "After the first time I got hit in... 1st grade?" It's more of a question to himself than a statement to John.

The bell sounds through the entire campus, John turns to Sherlock and grins. "In the kinck of time too." Sherlock agrees and pulling his coat on; just as they are about to part ways, John turns to Sherlock and asks: "next weekend, my parent's a throwing a house warming party, stupid I know but, you're welcomed to come. If you want, of course." Sherlock pauses but quickly recovers with a responce. "I don't see why not."

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**Aloha! I hope you enjoyed** **this chapter! Don't be afraid to comment! I luz you all! I hope you are just as excited as I am for chapter I call it THE CHAPTER SEXUAL DEDUCTION!... or chapter 5, which ever makes you feel comfortable. lol alright see you then! **

**~ Danni**


	5. Chapter 5: Layman's terms

**"I don't see why not."**

The week goes by in a blur, and in this short time, John has gotten use to some of Sherlock's habits. Such as skipping his musical studies to go to John's lunch because he 'already plays an instrument and is not interested in learning another.' Or when Sherlock comes to school already moody because 'everyone is an idiot.' But John's favorite was when Sherlock pulled out his histrionic side even though he is 'in _no way_ dramatic.'

Their rapidly developing friendship confuses the student body almost as much as the six Millennium Prize Problems confuses the mathematicians. Which only leads to trouble as we all know and thus, the flowering rumor of a love affair is planted. Due soon to sprout.

John scans the front yard; watching his new neighbors mingling around his house. "Okay, her." John points to a twenty seven year old woman with long rusty red hair, dressed in snooty tennis wear. Sherlock peels open one eye, hoaned in on the woman, he sinks farther into the fluffy sofa. "Child's play, but that's from many years practice, due go on."

John squints as if that improves his vision ten fold. Her skin gives off an unreasonably orange glow. **_Just tanned,_** John watches her grab a drink and is drawn to look at the pale circle that surrounded her ring finger. **_Divorced,_** he observes her clothing; spotless and perfectly bleached along with her shoes which means, **_she_** **_didn't really just get back from practice._** The last thing John thinks to note is how many guys surround her as she flirted her way round the circle. "She's in her early thirties, divorced, she just went tanning but not to tennis practice." John announces, proud of himself. "Twenty seven, her and her husband are _swingers,_ and yes." John glares at Sherlock who, even with closed eyes, can tell the golden boy is displeased. "Dammit!" He mutters beneath his breath.

Sherlock smirks, slightly satisfied. "John, it's been three days. Did you expect to pick it up that quickly?" He huffs, slamming his back against the couch next to Sherlock. "No, but you make it sound so easy. Like it's common knowledge." At this point Sherlock could object that it _is_ common knowledge, that the general population does what he can do at a feeble level. No, he will restrain himself. It's not all that magnifacent but none the less, when John compliments him on it, he isn't going to deny it's wonder. "Enough for one day, John. Aren't you suppose to be hosting a party?" John rounds his deep browns eyes and snorts lightly. "I'm suppose to hosting _my_ guests." "And?" "You're my only guest, Sherlock." Sherlock stretches, as he says: "In that case, I would love a cup of tea, or coffee, if you have it."

Definite proof of his boxing skills.

John unwilling leers at the small amount of ab showing just below his button down shirt. their well defined and firm from what John can see. John tries to remember before Sherlock gives his a trivial look. "John, you're staring." John turns scarlett red and stumbles over his words. "No, I - well, it's just- right, tea!" John could win a race against the road runner for how fast he escapes the room. John hasn't exactly told Sherlock that he takes interest in both girls and boys, or in layman's terms, bisexual. He doesn't plan on it ethier.

Sherlock rolls his glittery blue orbs, vastly annoyed with himself. Sherlock _knows_ and _still_ can't bring himself to say anything. He cups his face into hands, groaning. His phone viberates in his pocket, it's a text:

**5:32pm, Saturday, May 27:**

**Is everything alright? -MH**

Sherlock nows spirals into an angry fit. Why? Of all people, why must he be of blood relation?

**5:33pm, Saturday, May 27:**

**Don't you have a prime minister to attend or a government official to fire? -SH**

_**Damn that man**_, he growls. A throat clearing in the background brings him to focus. "Your tea." John tells Sherlock, bringing the two cups over to the coffee table. Sherlock composes himself and wants to continue on conversation as normal however, John just stares not playing along. A long drafty silence falls upon the two.

"You know," John says; Sherlock looks up warily. "You're not as unreadable as you want to believe." Sherlock blinks.

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**Ello! So I hope you liked it! Don't be afraid to comment! I luz you! I hope you can't wait for chapter 6 because we're finally getting toward my oh so waited for chapter 7 when they-**

**Anyway let's also thank my new puppy 'Doc' for finally fallin asleep long enough to post this! See you! lol Later!**


	6. Chapter 6: Obviously

**"You're not as unreadable as you want to believe."**

The light that once flooded the house, is dwindling into the early eerie blue of night but the party stays strong as they move out into the backyard. The two boys are the only to remain within the house.

"Oh?" Sherlock drolls with an inquisitive stare. His heart leaps into his throat.**_ No, he couldn't even begin to guess._** "You're angry, why?" Sherlock presses his mouth into a thin line. **_It's a start,_** he manages. "Mycroft, he's being a bastard." This isn't a lie, by any means, it's just not the entire truth. John waits to see if Sherlock will add any information, and he doesn't.

John's not stupid, even if Sherlock disagrees, he's aware that Sherlock is holding out. But John had no room to talk and it's only fair that Sherlock keep somethings to himself.

"Uh-huh..." John says through unmoving lips, his interest in the pattern of tea cup increasing immensely. Its soft purple designs gleaming against the white, it was a beautiful piece. From what his grandmother use to tell him, every time she used that glass, it would bring her luck. On some level John knows this is a

self-fulfilling prophecy

but he likes to hope that one day it proves true.

Sherlock studies him and something in his stomach wrenched over the way he looked. It's a heart breaking sight; how innocent he seemed, how brannd new he looked. Sherlock can recall what this feels like but can't lable it.

He opens his mouth like he means to speak but everything he wants to say dies on the edge of his tongue. A phone plays a lovely violin tone, Sherlock thrusts his hand into his pocket, imagining thirty four ways to destroy Mycroft for contacting him again. But to Sherlock's dismay, it's John who says, "My phone, excuse me."

The conversation is short and softly spoken from across the room. When John comes back, he apologizes. "Sorry, that was Harry-" "Your brother?" Sherlocks asks, John's brows knit together as he corrects Sherlock. "Sister. Harry is my sister." It's Sherlocks turn to make the face of confusion. "Earlier you mentioned Harry was dating a girl named-" "She's a lesbian." John quickly interjects; it's a sore topic. Not for him but his parents, his parents want grandkids, and with Harry being gay, all their hopes are forced onto John. Who's not even sure, if that's what he wants for himself. "Oh." Is all he can answer, he should have known.

John throws up his defence before Sherlock can explain his miscalculation. "What? Do you have a problem with gay people?!" It turns deadly quiet again. John's body feels like dead weight, he's terrified of the answer. What if Sherlock is homophobic? Even after a short period of time, it's never easy to let go of a friend. To make matters worse, _Sherlock _is a once in a lifetime type; John's heart sinks into despair. **_Don't be that way, please, just be open minded about it. That's all I ask,_** A silent plea.

You can slightly hear the muffled chuckles that come from Sherlock's sealed lips, past the music playing in the yard. "Do you?!" John snaps, Sherlock stops laughing all together. He definitly got the point across. "Obviously not, John." _Obviously_ is the word he should have avoided, he's aware of this but it's already been spoken. "What does _that_ mean?" "I should have chosen my words more carefully, forgive me." John repeats his question and with a sigh Sherlock must confess; "John, if i had a problem with it, I'd be horrified by myself." John's expression is blank again. **_Don't be so dull, John. You should have seen that coming._** "You're," His lilac voice trails off into distant thoughts. "Yes." Sherlock replys, in a bombastic tone. This suprises even him, he's never told _anyone_ that. Hell, he still has trouble admiting it to himself some times.

Contentment washes over John withan after twing of guilt. "Sherlock," John starts in a small voice, watching Sherlock gander at people from the window of the parlor room. "Hmm?" "Then I have something to tell you." Sherlock's making faces in the window, most likely judging them based on his observations; the blond's breathing is far from stable and his palms are clammy. "I'm not straight, I'm bi." Sherlock turns to John and remarks, "Oh, that I knew." Only some level John guessed that he would.

"Sherlock, you're going to get expelled one day for skipping." John states, biting into his apple. "Do you know how many times i've been threatend with that and have yet to recieved the paper?" John rolls his eyes, though a smile plastered his face. "Still, if you get suspended,you're running the risk of leaving me in chemistry with _Anderson_." Sherlock stops to consider this, if anything he can get Mycroft's assistant to watch out for John. "What are we doing in English?" Lestrade thinks for a moment, he has the same English teacher before them.

"Ms. Savas is having you guys write some stupid essay."

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**What an interesting place to stop... Now what's so special about an essay?**

**Lol Hello! i hope you enjoy this! Don't be afraid to comment! OH MY F*** GOD! WE'RE ALMOST TO CHAPTER 7!**

**Im not going to lie, it's a critcal chapter because Irene-**

**I Luz you all! See you there!**


	7. Chapter 7: Pressure

**"Ms. Savas is having you guys write some stupid essay."**

"I want you to think about the pressures you face in your daily life. Create a story where you haven't had some one pressure you; what in _your_ life would be different?" She finishes just in time for the bell to ring. A relief to the whole class.

John and Sherlock make their way down the hall to John's lunch. Sherlock tells John about his experiment with medium concentrated acid and the priceless expression on Mycroft's face when the stain from his desk began to peel. "Do you mind sharing _where_ you got acid from, exactly?" Sherlock snorts lightly waving his hand. "That's neither here nor there. Anyway, he got so pissed that-" Sherlock is cut short, and slams against the lockers, his text books hit the ground with a loud thud. "I have to hand it to you, Sherlock. I knew you were a freak but a _faggot_ too?" Anderson snarls maliciously.

"What are you talking about?" Sherlock's eyes widen into saucers for a tenth of a second before adjusting himself. "Eliza told us." "Who is this Eliza person?" Anderson snots, clutching Sherlock's shirt. Why today? Sherlock grimes, today was going very well too.

_**Shit!**_ John shouts in thought. "Eliza's is Harry's girlfriend. Anyway, what does that matter? The whole school knows about your sick ways now." Sherlocks brows raise as it dawns upon him. "Is that so?" His voice sounding indifferent. John knows this is a bad sign but he can't just let this happen. "Anderson, just let it go. He's not bothering you." John argues weakly, shifting his stance.

"Why are you defending this queer, John? Don't tell me you're one of them!" Anderson sneers, glancing between the two. John felt himself shrinking, smaller and smaller until he was the size of a pebble. He's doing good here; lots of friends, made it on the Rugby team, and was averaging in the top thirty percent tile for academics. If he says yes, that all goes to turmoil. Like all that effort was for nothing. "I'm not but that doesn't give _you_ the right to be a dick." John acknowledges, trying to ignore the gathering on lookers.

"Whatever, I may be an ass, at least I'm not a _freak_." With a final shove, Anderson howls with laughter and leaves with his crew of pathetic followers. Two of them glance back, a bit regretful for not standing up. Lestrade is one of them. Then finally, the crowd disperses.

Sherlock smooths out his purple shirt, grudgingly muttering about how he _just_ had it dry cleaned. John steps toward him and gives a small grin. "Hey, you alright?" A sigh passes through Sherlock's dried lips, gloom creeps it's way into the area surrounding them. "Why did you have to tell your sister? I trusted you with one of the most intimate things of my life. To top it off, you lie to cover your own ass." Sherlock whispers, still respecting John's privacy though John didn't deserve it. He turns to pick up his books, struggling to keep his muscles from reacting to the feeling. He had no idea what'd he do if he lost it; punch the blond, cry, or simply slip away into the lonely nothingness that had resided in him long before John introduced himself. "Just go away." Sherlock's tone sounds distant and foreign, even to himself.

John's mouth opens but a different voice is heard, "Sherlock Holmes, you're being signed out." The intercome says casually. This is the one time Sherlock is grateful for Mycroft's prying habits as he quickly parts from John to the main office.

Sherlock drags himself out to the blacked out Lincon town car and opens the door. Surprisingly, he finds Mycroft inside. Against what you may think, though the lived in the same residence, they rarely talked in person and when they did it was of grave importance... or when their mum 'just wants one nice dinner with _everyone_ at the table.'

"Don't expect me to-" Mycroft begins, messing with the knot of his tie. "I'd be disappointed if you did." Sherock finishes, sitting opposite of the large man. Sherlock stares out the heavily tented window, watching the buildings pass in massive blurs and listens to the gravel running against the tires. "I have an offer for you." Mycroft's voice cuts through Sherlock's over powering thoughts on Philosophy. A grim smirk is placed on his lips. "I was wondering when you were going to get to it."

John is lazily doodling in his note book as he'd since Sherlock do the first day they met. The lecture coming from his teacher about politics hardly registers to him. He feels horrid, he wishes that he could go back and change what he said. If it made Sherlock happy; he would in a heart beat. "Teachers and staff, we are going on emergency lock down." The man hastily announces over the speaker. No body panics; they were due for annual lock down drill. John groans, placing his head on his arms as a pillow.

Sleep could make him feel better, it usually did. Minutes pass before he's drifting into slumber, a viberation on his thigh forbids it. He retrieves his blackberry from his pants, holding it under his desk. He quickly opens the text when he sees who it's from:

**1:03pm, Thursday, June 1:**

**Sweety, is are you okay!? I got a voice mail saying there's a shooter on campus!**

**~ Mom**

John's heart stops beating. **_A_****_shooter?_**

* * *

**Hello, my lovelies! Sorry it's taken me so long to post a new chapter! I've been working on my own original book, so... yeah.**

**lol I hope you like'd it! Don't be afraid to comment! I luz you all! I AM SUPER PUMPED FOR CHAPTER 8!**

**So in chapter 8 we find out that Sher- *hysterical cough* **

**Later, guys! ;D**


	8. Chapter 8: The plan

**A shooter?**

John drags his gaze around the room, watching the students grow anxious and concerned. He must not be the only one to recieve the news. A bang on the door, throws the students into a frenzy as they rush to the back of the room. John doesn't flee with the rest of them, he remains at his desk. "John, get back here!" His teacher loud whispers and he obeys.

"Please, help! It's me, Irene!" John recognizes the voice to be Irene's. The teacher slowly creeps up to the door and in one swift movement flings open it, pulls Irene in by the the door can close, a man a little younger than Mycroft, about early to mid twenties, steps out from behind her; his suit expensive and his gun pointed at Mr. Dillano. "

"You come with me, baldy." walks out of the room along with the man. The sound of multiple steps disappear down the long hall.

Irene's clothes are rumpled and her hair disheavled, mascara stainning her cheeks. Her breathing is too fast and too deliberate, John watches her for a few moments. _**She's with the shooter.**_ He deduces, applying Holmes's method. A few colorful words come to mind to describe her. "Irene, are you okay?" Some student asks, she shakes her head through tears. John narrows his eyes, he can't bring himself to believe her. Irene crys into her hands, whispering to herself incoherently. "What happened?" John quizzes, testing her acting ablities.

"All he wants is Sherlock." Irene hiccups. _**No, not him.**_ John stares blankly at her.

A while passes before John recieves another text, this time from Harry:

**1:42pm, Thursday, June 1:**

**A teacher was shot. The people on the news are saying that this guy, Moriarty, is demanding your friend Sherlock come out or more people will be shot. What'd he do to piss this guy off?**

John can't answer. He knows who's very clearly got shot but has no idea what this Jim person has against Sherlock.

Nothing eventful happens again for minutes; students crying and shaking, Irene sitting in an almost to calm state, and John observing Moriarty as he leaves the hallway. His grin is manical and eerie. It was beyond unsettling and to make matters worse, no one had an idea of who or when he'd pull his next victim. Perhaps Irene but she would never speak.

After an eternity of quiet fear, John's phone viberates and he presses talk. Not like anyone is going to scold him for it on this occasion. It's a call from Sherlock, even in a state of emergencey he's excited to see the name.

"Hello." John answers quietly, slightly disturbed by his own casualness. You know, like his life_ isn't_ in mortal danger. "What class are you in?" No, 'how are you' or 'are you alright', it's oddly comforting how direct and callous Sherlock can be. "Maths, why?" "There is a side door on the right. Get there, now." Of course, Sherlock knows the schools layout by heart; John follows his directions and pushes his way toward the corner where the door is.

"Sherlock, what the bloody hell am I doing?" John questions, he can hear Sherlock growl annoyed by the question. "You're going to open the door for me, John." Instinctually, John turns away from everybody and faces the corner, whispering into the phone: "Are you mad?! Sherlock, the man wants you _dead_!" As he says this, John becomes aware of the fact that, Sherlock could give a damn about risking his _own_ life and he's never cared much for anyone else. So, who's he doing this for?

"Quietly and gentely, Understand?" Sherlock demands rather than asks, John sighs as answer. They're both silent but still on the phone. "Sherlock, I'm sor-" "John, is this something we really need to discuss _now_?" _**Yes! If he finds you or pulls me out...**_ "I guess not." John has trouble stablizing himself. Hearing Sherlock's voice; all the dread, fear, and anxiety is flooding John's being. The reality of the situation is now un-nerving him. "Now." Sherlock commands, John does as asked and noiselessly opens the door. Sherlock snakes through the small opening.

"Where is he?" Sherlock's voice is calm and collected, muffed conversations begin. "Jim wants _him_! Not us! i say-" Irene finally says aloud. "Shut up, Irene! Don't act like you're not a part of his scheme!" John snaps at her, something he's wanted to do since she entered the room. Irene looks positively taken back, he turns back to his robotic angel and says, "He left down the hall. Sherlock, what do you plan to do?"

"Simple, I plan to confront him."

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**... Take the time to realize there was a very important lesson in this chapter... NEVER get the door for Irene especially under lockdown! No es bueno! lol**

** Alright, so I hope you are enjoying this! Don't be afraid to comment! I love you all!**

**Chapter 9 is under construction as we speak! I can't wait for the what comes next and I hope neither can you!**

**See you there! :D**


	9. Chapter 9: One Factoring Weakness

**I apologize ahead of time it's not the ****action packed**** chapter. **(Ch. 10, I swear it will!)** But It felt important to add this because for ****_me_****, it's ultimately ****_the_**** defining moments of their friendship that's shifting into that inbetween area of 'why do you mean ****_that much _****to me'.**

* * *

Avoiding danger is no safer in the long run  
than outright exposure.  
Life is either a daring adventure, or nothing.  
-Helen Keller

* * *

**"Simple, I plan to confront him."**

John gives Sherock a look of astonishment, he never thought someone could be so smart that they're stupid. "No, Sherlock, I can't let you do that." John shakes his head, by the time he looks up however, Sherock is already leaving the classroom. John groans, is he really about to risk his _own_ life for this kid he met, maybe, a month ago?

John doesn't even think to answer his internal question as he's trying to catch up to Sherlock's long strides. When he does finally match Sherlock's quickend pace, Sherlock, listening to the golden boy's rythmic step, comes to a hault. "John, go back."

"Why should I?"

"Because you could get hurt."

"And I'm willing to take that risk."

"But I'm _not_. John, this isn't something I'm going to argue about. That's final."

John is beyond angry. _**How dare he! He is not the boss of me! I will do whatever- **_John's rage ebbs when he watches Sherlocks expression. His demeanor is stale and unmoving, excluding his eyes. They're strainning and glossy; concern, anger, and something John can't decipher. John means to say 'Let me help you' but instead results to: "Sherlock, you're a fucking idiot." Sherlock's brows pull upward, not in shock or dismay, amusement is the only word to describe it. They're in the middle of a shooting and Sherlock's _amused_. Of course.

"No because," Sherlock say in that immeasurable tone that can hardly be defined and stares at John's incerdible brown eyes; falls short on words. _**You're going to be the death of me, John, I just know it.**_ "Pain in my arse." Sherlock growls under his breath, turning on his heels, continuing left into a different hallway. John grins victoriously, now attemping to match Sherlock's large steps.

They travel down laybrinth of paths; Science hall, _no._ Literary hall, _no._ History hall, _no_. Then the reach the main walkway. Why always the main hall? Moriarty was leaning against the hall, lazily pointing the gun at another person. Anderson is scared to death; whimpering and sniffing as if it'll stop the speed of an impending bullet.

Sherlock contemplates on forcing John to leave at this moment but it's too late.

"I've been waiting." Moriarty answers in a sing song tone. His voice is soothing and so camingly rich that it makes John ponder how it's possible. In movies, villians have strange or dark tones that are creepy and misranged; it let's you know that this person _is_ evil. But realistically, it's so invitingly warm that'd you never think twice to be suspicious of him. This sends a shiver down John's spine.

Sherlock looks less than entertained. "Traffic is horrible this time of day, with the added frustration of the media showing up to be here, clogging the streets with their vans. I even had to use a back exit to get in." He vents with an unguarded stance and roll of the eyes.

Moriarty nods, a look of understanding crossing his face. "Really, they can be such a nuisance at times, you'd think they'd be more considering."

John gazes between the two with an incredulous look. _**For Crist's sake, are they really bantering?!**_ A small click breaks John's thought barrier, the gun is cocked. "Well, Sherlock. What should I with your old friend here?" Sherlock doesn't respond.

"Jesus, aren't you going to sav-"

"Shut up."

To John's amazment, Sherlock seems to be genuinly pondering if he should save Anderson. _**Granet, the guys an ass, that doesn't mean he deserves to die. **_But that is John, and this is Sherlock whom will be calling the shot. Sherlock barely has any self preservation, what leads John to believe he'll save someone else?

"Let him go." Sherlock answers, almost grudginly.

Moriarty motions for the young athelet to leave, and he scrambles away. It's very pathetic from Sherlock's view. Moriarty aims the gun at blue eyes and smiles, "Then you'll be taking his place." It seems like time froze in this moment, that Sherlock's mortality is becoming a sudden thought and how if this went wrong Sherlock wouldn't wake up; it's all registering to John. How can he possibley save the most wonderful-pain-in-the-ass-human he's ever met?

"A Russian TT-33 Service Pistol? I've been looking to add to my armoury, where migth I aquire one?" Sherlock breaks the quiet.

"I have people." Moriarty shrugs with a small smile.

"Of course." Sherlock returns the gesture.

You're fucking kidding me... John's head is pounding.

"Why are you doing this? What do you have against Sherlock?" John demands, returning to the present situation. Sherlock grunts breathily, John may not have realized but the banter was giving him time to think, time to plan. Sherlock needed to think of every viable action and it's result before he could act upon anything.

One factor that remained a constant weakness, the admittion of defeat, if Moriarty is clever enough to use, had to rid of.

"John, go down the hall."

"We're not starting this again." John protests; Sherlock turns to Moriarty slighty. "Do you mind?"

Moriarty shakes his head, waving the gun in a manner as if his hand were empty, dismissing it. "Go ahead." With that, Sherlock drags John by his elbow down the way until they reach the archway that splits into three halls.

"John, he _will_ shoot you if you do not go now. As your friend, I ask you to remain here unti the matter is resolved. If things get bad, I promise to call for you. Alright?" The request is actually a demand, the promise is false. They are both fully aware of this and then it clicks; they _get_ each other.

"Dammit, Sherock." John caves, the urge to reach for Sherlock's glorious body in for a hug is restrained.

"I promise, John." He lies.

* * *

**Aloha! Hope you read the note above. I love you all! Don't be afraid to comment! **

**Chapter 10 is the EPIC SHOWDOWN: SHERLOCK vs. MORIARTY! Who will win!?**


	10. Chapter 10: Smelling Iron

**"I promise, John."**

Sherlock is walking away from John, a sense of abandoment arises is him. He feels like he's left John without a best friend; if Sherlock can't get Moriarty...

Sherlock shakes his curls, sentiment will not be his saving grace. Though as he continues down the long bend of the hall, he can't help but wonder about the thought that so naturally grazed through his mind. Why _John_, in Sherlock's possible last moments, is his sentiment?

As the glossy blackness of Moriarty's suit comes into view, Sherlock building himself like a brick wall. He will _not_ bow down to someone else's will; he hadn't done it when his father beat him and he won't now.

An odd feeling of acceptance settles in his stmoach. He stands his ground, as Jim adjusts the pistol to point at Sherlock again. "Shall we begin?" Moriarty inquires, a bone chilling grin tugs at his pale lips. "No time like the present." Sherlock speaks indifferently.

Moriarty's smile drops slight, Sherly was hardly any fun in this state, "What's your deal? I set all this up for you and this is how you behave?" He nags, as if Sherlock is late for an at home dinner date. "You've _killed_ someone." Is the only responce, he'd never actually tell Jim the source of his pain.

Grey orbs roll in a circle as Jim grows annoyed. "Get over it, Sherlock. It's bound to happen. People die because what what people _do._" A growl rips at the base of his throat.

"I suppose, I should inquire _why _you're doing this." Sherlock prompts; this should get Moriarty to talk for a minute. That's all Sherlock can ask; _**give me some time.**_

"You've been a problem from the very beginning," Jim states rather quickly. "I know you've been assisting Mycroft with catching my 'people' for a while now. That means my productivity levels go down which means I loose money and I'm rather fond of my money, Sherlock!" Jim's clutch in the gun grows alarmingly tight.

Out of instinct, Sherlock bends slightly in a position to recoil, duck, or pounce. Which ever becomes critical. Instead, Moriarty continues in a droll: "And then there's Irene. She was one of my top players... then she met _you_. It was my fault for thinking nothing of it at the time. The more she talked to you; she lost her touch, her ruthlessness. Then I come across a god damn _essay paper_ to find out she's ratting me out on everything because of you!" An agrivated yell escapes him as he throws the crumpled was at Sherlock's feet.

Sherlock's practically a statue, a movement in the wrong direction or an accidental word could cause Moriarty to pull the trigger. The statistics and probabilities are slamming to the fore front of Sherlock's mind. _**Thirteen possible moves; same result.**_

"She was somewhat... how do I put this? She was," Moriarty pauses looking for the word. The pistols waving in a small circle to help his thought process. "Important to me." He finds himself saying. Sherlock understands but then doesn't.

A feeling of uncertainty swamps Sherlock when Jim beguns to chuckle. There's something absolutely wrong with this man. "But I guess, that's alright," Sherlock's brows twitch. _**Never a good sign. **_"You took something important of mine... and I'll take something important to you." Moriarty circles Sherlock and then busts into a jog in the direction where he came. _**What is- John!**_

Sherlock realizes, turning to find Jim out of his sight range. He takes off running. His hearts pounding in the base of his chest, a cold sweat dewing on his forehead, an aching in his palms he didn't notice throbbing.

Jim wasn't far from reach now, so Sherlock jumps. Tackling Jim to the ground, their bodies impacting against the tile floor with a thunk. A metallic sound skids a few inches away; _**the pistol.**_ A battle of strength occurs as Sherock reaches for the gun. Jim tthrows his weight into Sherlock, toppling them so that Jim is pinning Sherlock with his knees. Barely out of reach of the gun.

With a punch to the sensitive muscle underneath his arm pity, Jim pulls back altogether. Leaving enough room for Sherlock to squirm but Jim pulls him by his pant legs backwards toward him and dives. Jim has grip of the gun, though it doesn't make Sherlock shy away from trying to gain hold of it.

The two flip, and twist, and knot. And some where in all the confusion, Sherlock's back lands on top of Moriarty who has the pistol, which doesn't help that he can't exactly see. However, Sherlock can see where the gun is. It's hovering over Sherlock's chest and over Jim's as well. Sherlock tries to think of other ways but Moriarty is criminally smart, he'll find another way as well... or he could end it right now.

**Same result...**

Meanwhile, pacing back and forth at the archway where Sherlock left him, John is growing antsy. His legs, though in agony, do not rest. _**Sherlock.**_ John's thoughts sputter. John yawns; tired? When had he become so tired? His eyes are weighing down greatly. He's struggling with them to stay alert. A loud shot rings in his ears. _**Gun shot.**_ John decides, an automatic reaction to run in the direction of the sound. As he's running, he recalls a conversation:

"Sherlock, I'm sor-"

"John, is this something we really need to discuss now?"

John, knew it. He should have said it, it might have changed things drastically. Really, though, who is he kidding? Sherlock might have very well continued on as planned with or without the proclamation.

But he _didn't_.

John fell to his knees, not to be dramatic, only because his legs have given out by their own choice. The scene that laid before him was far more than he can handle. His vision begins to blur, water building up over his pupils. _**Damn you both.**_ John thinks; to Jim who took Sherlock's life and to Sherlock who wouldn't let him be there.

Something in John needs to touch Sherlock. Nothing grand, just a touch. His lack in sensiblity at the time causes him to, instead of walking over, crawl through the pool of blood to Sherlock's limp body. It's strong smeel of Iron gazes his nose as he sits on his knees in front of the fallen 's purple shirt is damp with the blood, its clung even more tightly to his etched muscles.

Even in death, Sherlock looks like surreal.

But something doesn't settle right with John about this though. Where the puncture wond is more specifically. It was in the same radius as his heart but not directly through it. John thinks back on what he's learned from the human body.

John's eyes gape open wide; the bullet hadn't hit the heart or any major arteries.

Sherlock can be _revived_...

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**...How much can one really say about this chapter?... **

**I hope you're liking it so far! Don't be afraid to comment! I love you all! **

**Hope you can't wait to see what entails our boys next! **

**Chapter 11, can Sherlock be saved...? ****Chapter 13**** will be our ****ending**** chapter! **

P.s: Oh and I've been getting a few messages on some wording or mis-spells, thank you. I've been having to use Word doc because my microsoft office is freaked up! Really, thanks. :)


	11. Chapter 11: Patch Work

**Sherlock can be ****_revived_****...**

John scrambles for his cellphone and asks Sherlock if he is awake and if he can respond. Sherlock does neither.

"999, how can I help you?" A lady asks.

"Lakenson Secondary School. My friend's been shot it the chest." A second passes.

A second that's to long for John's liking.

John lets out a breath sending everything around him in slow motion; he sets the mobile on speaker and sets it near him, making both his hands available.

_**Gun shot wound to chest. What do I do? CPR?**_

John leans forward, his nose bumps with Sherlock's and his lips barely skim Sherlock's. Suddenly he pulls back with doubt.

_**No, think, it's approximately three inches from the heart, meaning it's punctured the lung. Air is moving through the injury not the lungs; very bad. To stop it I need to cover the lung.**_

But where in the hell was he going to get a cloth at a time like this?

John strips off his shirt and tears a large path off, folding in to make it thicker, and gently presses it to the open wound. John feels his hand sink and rise, but to his naked eyes it doesn't seem like it's moving; shallow breathing.

A relief, indescribable to many, washes of John. Sherlock _is_ breathing; John was to dazed to notice slight inflation and deflation of air. But John doesn't celebrate, no, being joyful would not save Sherlock. It could wait.

"Okay, help is on the way. Now, I'm going to give you instructions to help your friend until they arrive. Alright?" John is annoyed with her patronizing tone. He didn't have time for this and neither does Sherlock. "Okay." John answers distantly, obliged to have any help.

_**Check for the exit wound**_, John immeaditly goes to do so and is expecting the worse, _**it had to go through if it killed Moriarty.**_

John gently arches Sherlock's back with his free hand. He smoothly sides he hand around the area looking for the opening which he finds in seconds. It's not gaping open but it's fairly sized in width and terribly deep, enough to make John squeamish. _**Cover exit wound.**_ John uses this time to lightly slide Sherlock off of Moriarty and used the rest of his rumpled shirt to set Sherlock's injury against, easing him onto fabric.

"Did you do it?" The voice penetrates John's focus. When had she started talking?

"I'm sorry, can you repeat." John feels bad that he had ignored her to begin with.

"See if he's conscious." John glares at the phone exasperated. How incompetent does she think he is?

"For love of- _no_, he's not but he is taking shallow breaths. I've kept him still and covered both the entering and exiting wounds. Now what?" John's past his limit.

Before the woman can answer, John can hear the sirens blaring outside.

As they haul Sherlock into the vehicle, John pleads with one of the large paramedics to go with him. they deny him, saying that only family and spouses are allowed. Which he quickly responds with: "But he _is_ my cousin. Please, I need to be there for him." The large man blinks at John with a nod. He has no time for validation. John hops in.

He watches the scene from the window of the ambulance as they ride farther down the road. The students running to their parents for comfort and the police scattered around the area. He glances at the pinkish hue of the sky, feeling that time has eluded him.

"Kid, did you do this patch work?" One of the paramedics asks, securing the oxygen mask over Sherlock's mouth. John, holding his arms close to his bare chest, nods and listens to the heart monitor make high pitched beeps. "Not bad for someone who's never done this before. You might have saved your cousin's life."

John's wary features flicker with confusion before relaxing. He'd forgotten he is Sherlock's "cousin". John gives a grim smile at the word _might_. Might leaves room for another possible fate, might is a word that John does not want to here in this case.

_**Sherlock, you idiot.**_

John gawks at the slumbering boy; when again that damn need appears. John hesitates but locks hands with him. Sherlock's hand is cold and slacked against John's. His fingers twitch at the heat, John's lips tug in a small grin. It's a start.

When they get through the doors of the ER, they switch Sherlock onto a trolley, with John jogging right behind until they enter the surgery; he sits in a chair in the hall.

The adrenaline is fading and John begins to feel tired like he did in the arch way of the school. "John Watson." A low, strained voice speaks. John notices that this is a statement not an inquiry.

Swanky clothing, a slim black umbrella,and a face of an over worked man. "Oh, Mr. Mycroft Holmes is it? Sherlock's spoken of you." John grimaces. He never said anything good about Mycroft, in fact he went as far as to say that Mycroft is his arch enemy, but still. "My god, look at you." John glances down; his hands stained in dried blood along with his knees. Though Mycroft expresses no disgust or concern; nothing. His body huddled underneath an over sized jacket, courtesy of the paramedic. "I was just tryi-" "I've heard." Mycroft interrupts John's explanation.

A long pause settles between them but it's not like John was expecting anything more. This is Sherlock's sibling of course. "I'm going to use the hospital phone, real quick." John feels the need to say, it's not like Mycroft would question him. He studies the older Holmes brother who doesn't even twitch at the comment.

John calls his parents, alerting them to where he is and what state he's in. Naturally he down play's the entire event though, this calmness did not ease his parents. No, they insisted upon being there and were a little miffed about the distance: a three hour drive. They'd be there as fast as they could, dragging Harry's drunk-self along.

He sighs, returning to the hallway. An extremely tall man in a white coat, that John can obviously assume is a doctor, is speaking with Mr. Mycroft Holmes. John's pace increases to drop in on the talk.

He catches Mycroft's icy glance. "Here he is now, you may proceed with the diagnoses." John tries to remember this moment because, if Sherlock's been telling the truth about his brother and John comes later to confirm, this is a rare act of kindness.

"Sherlock is in the ICU and we don't expect him to leave it for a while. He is stable however, that's not to say he'll _stay_ that way."

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**Hello! Sorry I've been gone. Hope you like it! Love you all.**

**We're cutting it close! Two more chapters before we part ways.**


	12. Chapter 12: By all means

_**I am SO sorry for not updating in forever. I fell into a real bad depression and couldn't bring myself to do anything past the necessary. To make up for it, I will add a bonus chapter! ^^**_

* * *

**_However, that's not to say he'll stay that way._**

It's understood among the Holmes family that at all times, especially at times like this, you must remain distant and calm. If you cannot control yourself, you do not make rational decisions. However, John is not a Holmes. He's a Watson. Which explains the bewildering stare he's giving Mycroft, who is contently reading a book as he waits for Sherlock to come from surgery. _**How do you do it?**_John wants to ask.  
John's a bloody wreck, falling in and out of sleep, excusing himself the rest room for a small cry but not Mycroft. For godsakes that's his younger brother and he hasn't lifted a finger since his arrival, unless it's to mess around on his blackberry. Hasn't even bothered to call their parents.  
"I'm sure we both know Sherlock has a slim chance on surviving," Mycroft says, casually flipping the page of his book. John is surprised by the sudden noise but welcomes it as a chance to get out of his own head. John opens his mouth to speak but his words are mute. "I think it only fair if you know how Sher-" "Johnny! There you are! Oh, my little boy!" John's mother shouts from the end of the hall.  
John glances at the stoic man, his thoughts crying out to him, _**How Sherlock what? What were you going to say? Answer me!**_  
As his family came into a closer distance, the more he regrets having called.  
His family looked too picture perfect.  
His father looked like a stereotypical army man, his mother like a prime and proper wife, and his sister... well, she looked exactly as John had expected. Glassy eyed and off balance, just as every drunk.  
John blinks out of his daze and sees his mother running toward him, arms out reached for a warming embrace. Swiftly, John steps to the right and turns to face Mycroft to make it seem like he was in the midst of a conversation. Mycroft is back to his blackberry.  
** God damn these people.** John sighs, Sherlock has rubbed off on him a little.  
In a surprise hug, his mother bellows, "John! Oh my sweet, sweet, boy! Are you alright? Did the shooter hurt you? Oh, honey!" She speaks so quickly that the words seem to slur together into squeaky high pitched noises. John restrains the urge to roll his eyes. "Yes, I'm fine."  
"Good, we're taking you home!" His mother announces with a smile.  
"No. I'm not going anywhere until I'm told Sherlock is out of ICU." John had made this promise long before they arrived.  
"Excuse me? I am your mother! I understand he's your friend and all but-" He tunes her out, consumed in his own thoughts. _**You don't understand. No one could understand how I feel about Sherlock.**_  
"No!" John shouts. From the looks of it John holding his ground and firm on his decision to stay on the inside however, he's shaking with doubt and is terrified of how this could end.  
This argument continues for a lengthy time before -  
"What the hell is _wrong_ with you lately?" His father inquires in anger. His cold green eyes are glaring at John. "Ever since you met this Sherlock, kid, you've been out of control. What is it about this kid, huh?" His father is practically shouting. Even some of the hospital staff stop and watch this unfolding event; some merely watching, others ready to jump in if it escalated.  
John now finds a great curiosity in the tiles beneath his feet. "Nothing." John mumbles.  
"Oh, no. It's got to be _something_. So what is it?" John's father keeps pushing and pushing until John breaks.  
"Because I like him, okay!? Because I like him a lot," John sniffs, unaware of the water streaming down his face. But he not finished, he needs to tell them now or he'll never be able to. He confesses all of his angry, all of his pain, and guilt. Then comes to pause. Catching his to make his final statement, "And if my being a _bisexual_ is a problem for you, then by all means leave. I am so damn sick of living in a place where I am terrified to be whoever the hell I want."  
A few murmurs are made in the background but that's it.  
"My son... a queer." His father spits with a tight jaw, turning around and calling John's mother to follow. Harry is dragged by her wrist with them but looks back with a small smile. A proud smile.  
John sits back down in the chair across Mycroft. He bends forward, his hands covering his face. Mycroft glances up from his phone, unmoved by the scene unfolded. How could he? He hardly knew the boy and sympathy was not his strong suite. Though this, in some way, eases him. He opens his mouth, but soon rejects the idea, and closes it again.  
John, in all his despair, was lost in thought. He no longer had his home, he no longer had his family, and all this for someone he wasn't sure would live to see next week. What is it about this kid? His fathers words ring in his ears, as if he were standing right there. "Everything." John whispers. He hadn't even consider the fact Sherlock might not share these feelings.  
The sky turned from pink to orange, orange to dark blue, and blue to black.  
Still, both John and Mycroft remain. Waiting. A flash of green walk down the hall, instantly Mycroft stands up which causes John to make the same movement. It must be the doctor.  
The man in scrubs stand before them both, pulling his surgical mask off his face. A small smile on his lips. "Surgery went very successful. In fact, I feel confident in saying give him two weeks in recovery, a little therapy, and he should heal enough to leave the hospital."  
John excusing himself to the bathroom. When he reaches the area, he closes the door, leaning all of his weight against it. He smiles broadly and begins to chuckle. He turns his gaze up to the ceiling. "I don't know how the hell you did it... but thank you."

* * *

**End of Chapter 12. **

**Some time this week... ****The** **End.**** :O**

**Thank you for waiting, I hope you enjoy, I love you all! :D**


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